The Fight
by Balanced
Summary: Sequel to Therapy:  "Everything he never knew he wanted was finally within his reach and he wasn't going down without a fight."


**A/N 1: ****Someone put in a request for a sequel to Therapy, and there's no way I'm going to ignore a request from a reader. So here you have it. Kinda been slaving over it for a week, so please be gentle. Dedicated to LuridLurker.**

**A/N 2:**** The "groundhog" reference in the story is a nod to another of my favorite couples of all time, Ryan and Taylor from The O.C.**

**Disclaimer: ****Don't own anything, not even an appreciation for rainstorms.**

_**The Fight**_

Greg House hadn't exactly been _expecting_ the doorbell to ring, but when it did he couldn't muster surprise. As if summoned intentionally, the hairs on his arms stood up on end and he gave a sharp, impatient sigh. _Wonder who that could be._

Carefully he made his way to the door, narrowly avoiding one of The Child's (his internal nickname for Rachel) toys that Cuddy had accidently left behind. The duck let out a slow "Quaaaack" when he knocked it aside with his cane.

Damn duck.

"Wilson," he greeted as he swung the door open. His best friend stood in front of him, hands in his pockets, his eyes downcast. Raindrops dotted his tan jacket and his thick, brown hair was damp. "Are you okay?"

There was silence as he waited for an answer until the oncologist finally asked, "Wanna ride to a Red Box with me?"

House blinked back, trying to think of an appropriate response. "You sure you don't want to just come inside? Netflix sent me "Psycho" this afternoon."

Wilson shrugged half-heartedly and the diagnostician couldn't resist a small eye-roll. Seriously, he was such a drama queen. But it didn't stop him from grabbing his coat and following the other man out to the car. The longer Wilson went without speaking the more paranoid he felt himself become. His best friend wasn't known for suffering in silence- raging in fury or fear was more his speed.

A sudden crack of thunder startled him just a tad. The rain had slowed to a drizzle but black clouds darkened the sky.

"Were you going to turn the car on," he eventually prompted.

"I'm sorry about you and Cuddy."

Um, okay. "Yeah, no matter what she said, I knew the oatmeal didn't match my jacket."

"Do you think you'll get back together?"

House's heart fluttered with dangerous hope, but he beat it back with a wooden spoon. No, it couldn't be. "I doubt it." Privately he knew it went further than that. Dating the woman that made perfect, flawless sense had just shown him that a, well, female proxy for Wilson wouldn't work. Being alone was preferable. _You haven't known real misery until you've gone to the person you love for relationship advice_, he thought.

Wilson didn't move, didn't turn the key in the ignition. Long seconds ticked by as House silently battled his desire to meddle against a quiet whisper to give the younger man some time. Eventually, as always, the former won out.

"Wilson. Hello?"

Finally his friend resumed speaking. "What would you say if I told you that my heart is pounding in my ears right now?"

"I would say that you're nervous." Was that his voice, so soft and low? "But I would wonder why."

"You wouldn't say you had a theory?" House froze, but his eyes flew to the other man. Was this happening? Was Wilson . . ? But neither one had ever mentioned the conversation from years ago.

"I . . ." His voice trailed helplessly away. He cleared his throat and started again. "I'm not sure what you want me to say here."

"I'm ready," Wilson burst out. "I mean, if you're ready. I didn't want to say anything while you were with Cuddy." He paused to look up and shoot House a shy grin. "But if you're sure you're not-"

"Wilson," he interrupted. "Just stop." He could barely believe the words that were about to come out of his mouth, but he also couldn't stop them. "It's not going to happen."

The oncologist looked like he had been slapped. His mouth dropped open and he stared at the man beside him in shock, like he didn't quite recognize him. House watched him swallow hard, then take an unsteady breath. "I don't understand," he said, confusion sketched in detail across his face. "You don't want to try anymore?" God, he was using his puppy face, his brown eyes wide with innocence.

"This isn't what you want," he muttered, careful to keep his voice even.

"Of course it is." His best friend sounded so sincere that House almost faltered. How many times had Wilson accused him of an inability to allow himself to be happy? Arguments on rooftops and balconies, and anger so real that reflection made it impossible to smother the questions. And yes, okay, he had a reputation of being guilty in that regard, but this was different.

"You've been divorced twice since we had that conversation, and only now have you decided that it's worth bringing up?" He arched his eyebrows. "Wilson, really, it's fine." And, deciding the discussion was over, the diagnostician exited the car.

Wilson stared silently after his friend, reviewing his parting words. He hated to admit it, but the thing was that there were definitely doses of truth to House's argument. He could have brought the whole thing up after his divorce from Bonnie, and then Julie, but he didn't have to ask himself the reasoning behind the hesitation. He already knew the issue. Fear. It was as simple and as complicated as that. Fear that time had changed the other man's mind, fear that he had misunderstood from the beginning. It had taken watching the man date someone else for him to finally fight for what he wanted.

How could House not believe him?

As though in answer to his unvoiced question, memories of the last few years found their way to the surface of his thoughts. Leaving his best friend on the floor of his apartment, drowning in stolen drugs; shutting House out after Amber died; asking him to move out because Wilson wanted Sam to move in . . . And those were only off the top of his head.

Well, those days were over. Everything he never knew he wanted was _finally _within his reach, and he was not going down without a fight.

He was out of the car before he even realized he was considering it. His knock sounded outrageously loud, but he chalked that up to nerves.

It seemed like hours before House opened the door and was standing in front of him again. The sight of the oncologist made House sigh. "For god's sake, Wilson-" But Wilson would never know what he'd planned to say. Always one much better with actions than words, he cut the older man off by covering rough lips with his own. Desire –burning, aching desire- clawed at him as he pushed House back, pinning him against the wall. When he pulled away a moment later, he gripped his love's shoulders as tightly as he could.

"You were right," he said firmly, barely even trembling. "You were right about me. I should have brought it up before, but I'm saying it now. I love you. I've always loved you. And I get it if you have doubts because I've definitely given you reason in the past. But I did buy you that damn organ when you asked me for furniture that defined _me_. You're the only person who even knows about Danny. You said it yourself that when I need to talk you're the person that I go to. You're the only person I asked to be with me when I had the surgery for Tucker. I need you. It's pathetic, but there it is. I need you. And I don't care if I have to spend the next six months sleeping on the front step – I am _not_ leaving until you agree to give us a chance."

House rolled his eyes. "God, you are so melodramatic." Then he grinned lightly.

Wilson tried not to smile back, but failed, then shrugged in nonchalance. "It felt like a little melodrama was called for. I mean, you did storm out of the car."

"Sure, blame the cripple."

"I love you," Wilson said again, determined to make that very clear. "As in, don't be surprised if I start following you around in a groundhog costume."

"You can't pull off stalker." He cocked a suggestive eyebrow. "But I know something you _can_ pull off." Then he blinked. "Oh, I love you too, by the way. Guess I could have started with that."

"I was hoping that was the case. Otherwise that "pull off" comment would have been slightly inappropriate. Speaking of which . . ." His fingertips found the bottom of House's shirt. "Where were we?"


End file.
